


embrace

by Hinn_Raven



Series: deprivation [6]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Healing, Hugs, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 15:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11786208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: Tucker has to go on a mission. Luckily, the rest of the team is happy to help Wash get through this.





	embrace

**Author's Note:**

> I had a LOT of requests for various platonic friendships and Wash getting physical affection. Hopefully, you guys will be happy with this! 
> 
> Usual warnings for this series; references to trauma, abuse, and captivity, including some minor flashbacks. This is still hands down the fluffiest entry in the series though. Wash has made a lot of progress.

The first time Tucker has to leave is hard for everyone.

Wash is _better_ ; he’s verbal more days than not, and he’s remembering names and faces better.

But Tucker leaving is still brutal.

“You’re not being punished, Wash,” Carolina says to him, her hand wrapped around his wrist almost tight enough to bruise. It grounds him, even as he stares into the distance at Tucker’s shuttle. It’s important, he knows that—Tucker’s sword is a resource they can’t afford to just leave behind in Armonia all the time, and Wash is a risk out in the field. But all that doesn’t change the hollow, wrenching feeling in his chest.

Once the shuttle is out of sight, Carolina gently tugs him away. “It’s going to be fine,” she tells him. “He’ll be back before night.”

Wash opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a faint whining noise. He feels himself flushing brightly at that. Carolina pauses in concern, looking at him.

“Do we need to get Grif?”

Wash makes himself shake his head; it’s okay, it’s fine, it’s not like Locus and Felix never left him alone before. It will be just like when he was alone on base with the pirates.

Carolina hesitates, then presses a hand to his cheek. “Are you sure?” Wash almost startles at the contact, but instinctually leans in to it. Her fingers are cool and comforting against his cheek, and she curls the tips of her fingers over one of the scars there.

“’m sure,” he says, and her eyes soften slightly as she hears him vocalize. Him being like this is hard for her, he can tell even if she doesn’t say. Tucker says she’s known him longer than anyone, and that _feels_ right, but most days Wash can’t remember. Grey gave him a journal to write down the things he does remember, but what he mostly remembers with Carolina is fighting; a whirlwind of teal and danger and the knowledge that when she’s here, things will be fine. He tries to focus on that sense of certainty that he has in his memories, tries to pull it over himself like a blanket.

She gives him a smile. Wash moves his hand slightly so she’s no longer gripping his wrist, instead tangling his fingers with hers.

“You’re going to ruin my reputation,” she says, but there’s a kindness to her voice. They keep walking. Wash manages to keep pace with her for a while, but eventually the feeling of _wrong_ begins to sink into his brain and he falls behind her, letting her take the lead. She doesn’t let go of his hand the whole while.

“Tucker helped you eat before he left, right?” Carolina asks as they finally reach the small cluster of rooms that belongs to the Blues and Reds. She always refuses to call it feeding him. She hates it, even if it is what it is. Tucker needs to feed him. Wash can’t feed himself.

Wash nods, even though she knows the answer. His head is pounding slightly in his ears and he closes his eyes.

“Do you need anything?” She asks, taking his chin in her hands and guiding his face up. He opens his eyes and stares at hers. They’re the wrong shade of green, too bright compared to the steady, dark green of Locus that Wash still finds comforting, even now, but it’s still calming to see, and Wash forces himself to meet her gaze until he feels present again.

“I’m okay,” he says.

Carolina doesn’t quite look like she believes him, but she guides him to her room and makes him sit on the bed. “I have to go to a meeting,” she says. “The others are close by if you want them.” Wash has his datapad and his journal; he needs to record his nightmares for Grey, and look at some information for Kimball and Doyle, to see if they can piece things together from Wash’s fuzzy recollections of where he’d been held.

She hesitates in the doorway for a moment before dropping a kiss on his forehead as she leaves.

It’s enough to keep Wash on the bed for ten minutes, trying to work on his report, before Locus’s lessons kick in and he goes to the floor.

He could go to Grif, the part of him that’s still coherent, still aware and in the present, still _him_ , not that terrified, obedient version of himself they twisted him into knows. He could go to Grif, and that would remind him that this wasn’t punishment, that Tucker was coming back, that it would be okay.

But he couldn’t make himself move. He knows that the door isn’t locked, that there’s no tape over the doorway, but there’s knowing and there’s _believing_ , and the room feels small and cold and lonely. Carolina’s bed, with its military regulation sheets and Caboose’s drawings on the walls are nothing like his cell, but none of it feels like it’s sinking in.

Inside his chest Wash feels the panic stirring, the fear that he’s really done it this time, that Locus isn’t coming back, that he’s going to be left here, and—

The door opens, and a man in red armor pokes his head in.

Wash flinches away unthinkingly before the man speaks. It’s like cold water being thrown over him and Wash gasps as he realizes that he’s curled in the corner of Carolina’s bedroom, cowering away from Sarge.

Sarge has his helmet off now, tucked under one arm. “You okay, son?” He repeats gruffly, but he’s looking at Wash in a way that says he already knows the answer.

Wash scrambles for words to respond to Sarge, to reassure him that he’s fine, but they’re fuzzy and out of reach, his tongue clumsy as he tries to stumble through what should be a routine statement.

Sarge glances at him. “Hmm. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I believe we need Grif for this one.”

Wash swallows, staring at the floor. Now that the panic is over, shame flares hot on his face. He can’t even be away from Tucker for—how long was he even alone in this room?

His hands curl into fists at his sides. He feels pathetic and small and… and _useless_. They made him into a weapon, into a _pet_ , and he’s still helpless the second Tucker is gone.

“C’mon, Agent Washington,” Sarge cheerfully says. “Grif’s down with that broken leg from last week but I’m sure Doctor Grey will be happy to let you visit.”

Wash tries to get to his feet, tries to take a few steps towards Sarge. His feet barely are moving before it hits him hard; Locus’s hand on the back of his neck, forcing him down to the ground. _“Stay down when you’re being punished, Washington. You know the rules._ ”

Wash stares at the floor between his hands, refusing to look up at Sarge, refusing to see what Sarge might be thinking about this. Wash remembers, vaguely that Sarge had respected him _before_. They’d worked together. Team leaders.

And now Sarge still lead his team, while Wash couldn’t even cross a room unless it’s on his hands and knees.

“Stay there, don’t worry your pretty little head about it Washington,” Sarge says. There’s a hand in his hair, but it’s not even calming Wash down as much as it should. He’s too out of it but not enough; too aware of the humiliation to be able to just follow his instincts but not able to shake it off. Wash knows it should be a good sign that he can still think, that he’s not moving away from Sarge’s bright armor, that he can at least know that it shouldn’t be like this. But it doesn’t feel _good_.

The door opens again, and there’s suddenly a loud noise as someone gets on their knees to join him on the ground.

Wash looks up into Caboose’s kind, smiling face and feels his muscles relax slightly.

“Agent Washington!” Caboose says, grabbing Wash and pulling him into his lap for a hug. Caboose gives the best hugs. Wash’s’ memories before the cell are still patchwork at best, but he knows that one of the first hugs he got in years was from Caboose, shortly after they left the place with the snow. Warm, full, enthusiastic. Caboose was not a small man, and he encompassed Wash easily, the pressure just enough not to hurt, but enough to remind Wash of where he was. It was like a weight had been lifted off his chest, and Wash could breathe easier, feeling safer than he had since Tucker’s pelican had left. “Sergeant Pirate says that you’re playing the quiet game again and that we need to get you to Grif so you can feel better!”

Wash nods, still not trusting his voice. The thought of having to crawl to the hospital almost is enough to make Wash reconsider, but he now realizes he was thinking he was still with Locus. Grif can stop that from happening again, and so it’ll be worth it, even if the entire base has to see the feared Agent Washington crawling like a dog on his hands and knees.

“C’mon, let’s get you up then,” Sarge says, and Wash blinks as suddenly his position shifts until he’s draped over Caboose’s back. “Up you go, then!” Sarge scowls at him. “Well hold on then, Washington, don’t just lie there like a sack of potatoes!”

Wash’s brain finally catches up with his body and he realizes what’s happening. Wash quickly moves his arms so that they’re clutching each other in front of Caboose, and tries to grip with his legs as best he can. A piggyback ride is at least better than crawling, Wash has to admit, and tries to smile at Sarge in thanks. 

No one even blinks at them as Caboose practically bounces out of Carolina’s room with Wash on his back, chattering eagerly the whole time. Wash zones out, listening to the chatter. It’s nothing like when Felix would ramble, which Wash always scrambled to follow at least the tone of, even when he understood very few words, because if Felix thought that Wash wasn’t paying attention, he’d pay for it. Caboose doesn’t care about that. Caboose just rambles happily about his new friends on base, about Freckle’s progress, about how it really wasn’t fair that Felix kept making Wash play the pirate game, and that Sarge said that if they cut out Felix’s tongue Wash wouldn’t have to play so often so they really should go do that.

Wash thinks Caboose has given him piggyback rides before this; something niggles at his memory. A hot, plush jungle, and something hot and burning. Fire. Caboose had carried him out. Something bad had happened. A crash.

Wash wonders if Caboose remembers that too. He tries to ask, but words are still too hard. All that comes out is one of those pathetic whimpers he so hates making. Flushing, he buries his face in the soft, sweet smelling fabric of Caboose’s shirt and just tries to focus on the comfort of being pressed against a warm, living body.

Finally, Wash recognizes the harsh smell of antiseptic and the blinding bright lights of the hospital, and looks up. There’s Grif, leg propped up in a sling and frowning at him in that way of his that Wash has slowly learned means that he’s worried, although he’ll never say it. Especially not when the others are around. Wash will never tell Grif that he remembers some of those moments in the early days, before he started talking again.

A flare of anger rises in Wash’s chest when he sees the reminder of Grif’s injuries. One of his jobs is to protect his—to protect _them_. He failed to protect Locus. He failed to protect Grif. He _can’t_ protect Tucker, because Tucker _left him behind_.

“I thought Carolina was supposed to bring him here if he was having a rough time?” Simmons is sitting by Grif’s side, holding his hand. Spotting Wash looking, he flushes the color of his armor and drops it, scooting back.

“He was fine when she left,” Sarge says. “She asked me to check on him.” Caboose deposits Wash on the bed with Grif, much to Grif’s vocal disapproval. But before Wash can scoot away, Grif sighs and puts a hand in his hair.

“Don’t be fucking stupid, okay?” He sighs. “You did it again, didn’t you? Didn’t ask for help because you have something to prove to yourself.”

Wash refuses to answer because he _can’t_ , but he knows his cheeks are giving him away.

“You’re such a fucking dumbass,” Grif says. Wash slowly finds himself relaxing as Grif runs his fingers through his hair. Caboose cheerfully pulls up another chair and begins to talk again. “You’re not alone anymore, Wash.”

Wash doesn’t leave Grif’s bedside until Tucker comes back that night with a black eye, a split lip, and news on Felix’s location.   

**Author's Note:**

> To be concluded in the finale! ;)


End file.
